


Fireside reunion

by GreenWaters



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis is running late, Banter, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, No real context, Reunions, Twenty Years Later, but vague on details, grey hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 13:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7803838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenWaters/pseuds/GreenWaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a snowy night twenty years later, four Musketeers and Madame D'Artagnan gather for a cosy fireside reunion.</p><p>  <i>"Is that?"</i></p><p>  <i>D'Artagnan passed over the battered hat, watching Athos turn it over with an amused smile. "Now only for special occasions."</i></p><p>  <i>"Remind me-" Athos said slowly in that rich voice D’Artagnan had dearly missed, "-why it was you never had a hat."</i></p><p>Written for the August 2016 Fête des Mousquetaires - ‘Heat'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireside reunion

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all,  
> Here's a fluffy ‘twenty years later’ story, with very minimal specifics about their future lives, and just friendly reunion banter.  
> The 'Heat' theme doesn't feature very prominently, but was the inspiration behind the story. It's cold here and I am dreaming of cosy fireplaces.

  


[Cheminée 01a on Flickr (CC BY-NC)](https://www.flickr.com/photos/overdozoverdoz/13270981703/)

“It will be the end of them,” D’Artagnan sighed, pulling the heavy tavern door closed against the swirling snow.

Seated in an alcove by the door, with the cozy fireplace close at hand, Porthos reached out and drew another bench to the fire for the new arrivals. The sharp breath of night air stirred the flames, and the blaze crackled contentedly - a comforting backdrop to their reunion. "The end of who?"

"My feet," D'Artagnan replied with a wince. "A hole in my boot - and Rue de l'Ursine awash with melted snow. If my toes survive this I’ll be a lucky man."

“You _are_ a lucky man.” Constance flounced her skirts, scattering the snow clinging to the hem. "And only last week I told you -"

"I know," D'Artagnan sighed, throwing his hat dramatically onto an empty chair. "But the orders had to be filled first."

"Keeping busy, then." Athos remarked, lazily withdrawing his own boots from their comfortable place by the fire to rise and greet the newcomers.

"Always." D'Artagnan smiled, taking a slow breath and letting duty fall away in the company of his oldest friends.

Porthos grasped his wrist in greeting, his arm muscles having lost none of their strength over the years, and drew D'Artagnan into an embrace.

"Perhaps I should leave you boys to it?"

"Don't be foolish, Constance. You're more than family."

D'Artagnan sank onto the bench, breathing in the heat from the fire and enjoying the blossoming warmth against his knees.

"Is that?" Athos was eyeing his hat on the chair beside them.

D'Artagnan leaned and passed over the battered thing, watching Athos turn it over with an amused smile. "Now only for special occasions."

"Remind me-" Athos said slowly in that rich voice D’Artagnan had dearly missed, "-why it was you never had a hat."

Standing behind his chair, Constance cuffed her husband on the back of the head. "Perhaps he liked to show off his hair. Still no grey. Hardly fair after all the trouble you boys have brought me."

Porthos snorted at being called a 'boy'. His hair had not stood the test as well as his younger companion, and his beard was currently shaved to greying stubble. Athos' lighter hair hid the grey better, and at their last meeting D'Artagnan had remarked that it leant authority, only to receive a quelling glare in response.

D'Artagnan smoothed his own ruffled hair, pretending offence but taking secret enjoyment in Constance's flippancy - a rare indulgence now that he had a reputation to uphold.

"The food is late," Porthos grumbled. When Athos raised an eyebrow he protested, "It was a long ride!"

"Not half so long as for your horse," D'Artagnan grinned, feeling younger than his years in this company.

Porthos gesticulated with his cup in the Gascon’s direction, a few drops of ale overflowing. "Now now  _ Captain _ , if that's how you treat an old friend, next time I'll forget to make the journey."

As Constance rose to make their order, D’Artagnan lent forward with sincerity. "It is _good_ to see you both again."

Porthos held up his cup. "To absent friends."

They shared a sombre moment, before the tavern door banged open, sleet scattering in a confusion of cloak and salt-and-pepper curls.

"Toasting without me?"

Porthos rose to greet Aramis, enveloping his friend in a bear hug, then thumping the bench beside him to encourage Aramis to join them.

"You always liked to make an entrance," Athos drawled, half rising for his own embrace.

The beady-eyed innkeeper was frowning at Aramis' elaborate cloak and the snow the man was now depositing onto his cleanly swept floors.

"We were toasting Treville." D'Artagnan clapped his friend on the back. “Though I am without a drink.”

"To Treville!" Aramis proclaimed, poaching Athos' cup from the small table and taking a gulp. Examining the contents with raised eyebrows, he exchanged it for Porthos’ drink before the larger Musketeer snatched it out of his hand.

“Surely the Minister can afford to buy his own ale?”

“The coffers are not open to my whims. I am only a humble adviser.”

Athos made a sceptical noise as Aramis shrugged off his cloak with a flourish and draped it close to the fire.

Porthos rubbed his hands as the food arrived along with Constance - large, steaming bowls of stew with crusty bread.

“Constance.” Aramis tipped his hat.

“Aramis.”

He held out his arms. "No kiss?"

"We only saw you this morning. Or was that some _other_ courtier depleting the Garrison's supplies?"

She pushed a cup into his hand with a knowing smile. “We ordered food without you. You were late.”

Porthos laughed gruffly. "You sound surprised. He is always late."

Despite knowing that Aramis was rarely less than punctual these days (except where making an entrance was to his advantage), D'Artagnan did not speak up on his friend’s behalf.

There was a communal silence as the stew was consumed, and D’Artagnan shifted his chair closer to the fire.

“I miss this,” Aramis said, without affectation.

“What - Porthos finishing off all the food while we go hungry?”

Porthos drove his fork into D’Artagnan’s armrest. “Careful, boy. I once killed a man with only a fork in this very tavern.”

D’Artagnan raised questioning eyebrows at Athos and Aramis.

“Close enough,” Athos shrugged.

“But surely the Court provides better company than a few lowly soldiers?” D’Artagnan asked, returning to the topic of Aramis' nostalgia to fish for compliments.

“My friends, the years living out of each other’s pockets were the best of my life. No,” he held up a hand to forestall comment. "I may be comfortably situated now - but where’s the adventure?"

"I heard you thwarted an assassination only last week."

"That was last week," Aramis sighed, the flames lighting up his dark eyes. "I miss camping under the stars - late nights around the fire - the danger!"

"And the guard duty? The long hours in the sun?" D'Artagnan asked.

Athos gave Aramis a knowing look. "When a musketeer, you looked to a life of religion. When a monk, you wished to be a musketeer. It does not surprise me that you now look again to active duty."

"You know me well, of course. My fickle nature always the sting in your sides."

"Never that," Athos said with fondness.

Constance sighed at the familiar exchange, eyes drifting to a small group of men who were leering across the counter at the pretty barmaid.

D’Artagnan made to intervene, but Constance laid a restraining hand on his arm. "Wait."

The resounding slap cut through the bustle of the tavern, and Constance smiled in satisfaction.

D'Artagnan sank back down. "At this rate, the Musketeers will be obsolete."

Porthos shook his head, and tipped his chin towards the bar.

The minor altercation had escalated - the tavern owner stepping in to confront the troublemakers. Several tavern patrons had taken objection to the girl's audacity and were joining the argument.

Another blow was struck, shouts of protest rising as each patron took sides.

"Gentlemen?" Athos raised an eyebrow.

Porthos eyed the growing brawl with a wicked grin. "Just what we need."

"Something to heat the blood," Aramis agreed, his eyes twinkling with the promise of adventure.

As one, they rose to confront the new challenge.

Athos' knees cracked loudly as he gained his feet.

Porthos half stood, but upon feeling chill of the air outside of their fireside refuge, slowed in his ascent.

Aramis had one hand on his sword hilt, but the other pressing against his lower back. "Stood too quickly," he grimaced.

D'Artagnan scooped up his hat and saluted his three oldest friends with an indulgent smile. "The night is long. Have another drink - and if you are in luck, there will be a few alive for you when I am done."

“Ah, the arrogance of youth,” Aramis sighed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much for taking the time to read :) I'd love to hear if you enjoyed this little tale.


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